


Ad perpetuam memoriam

by tenderisthedawn



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Las Vegas, M/M, Mutual Pining, New York, Repressed Memories, Sad with a Happy Ending, Theo POV, Yearning, goldfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 07:44:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21158087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderisthedawn/pseuds/tenderisthedawn
Summary: I Imagined his cosmopolitan ass sleeping in the streets in an unknown country, with just a pair of socks but The Idiot by Dostoyevsky in his hands.orTheo spent years repressing the memories he has of Boris, eventually they reunite.





	Ad perpetuam memoriam

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. I'm back. This is something I put a lot of work on.  
No beta. Just me, sorry for any mistakes. my english sucks

*  
Memory is what I am most afraid of, is easy to remember what you had for breakfast this morning but then it gets blurry to see, in your mind, what you had for breakfast a week prior and so on, little aspects of our lives end up being like hallucinations, fuzzy and not relevant enough to recall. Those, the ones who lie dead in the back of your head, those are the ones I am most afraid of.  
See, it was easy to forget everything once eight years passed and just like that I suppressed everything because it was leaving me a bad taste and the least I wanted was a bad taste.  
In life, I needed to feel some kind of stability, a new beginning that could bring some, if not happiness, balance, a sense of normality. And remembering an old friend of mine was not the best I could do to embrace my normality, my I am happy and living facade, the mask I was living with. 

And as they say, it is easier said than done, because at night I tried to conceal my dream, my head on my pillow, after so many drugs and tiredness, part of myself would go back to him.  
Like a safe place that I didn’t know existed within me.  
Boris, I thought. His dark eyes ignited in my brain, the memory.

He was then bony and pale, and the moon was his nickname. Head framed by black hair, curly and messy hair. He was all cursing and jokes, not a single drop of seriousness in him.  
I loved him.  
I loved how reckless his actions were and how easy was for us to steal apples and vodka, and wait for the night to come.  
I imagined his cosmopolitan ass sleeping in the streets in an unknown country, with just a pair of socks but The Idiot by Dostoyevsky in his hands.  
I loved him.

There were other times where I could barely walk through my memories looking for his presence, for more intimate moments that I lost trace of, flashes of light and darkness both resonating in my brain, our bodies sharing a heartbeat and our tongues tied.  
Then I saw him again, in Las Vegas, coming out of the pool half-naked, like I said, all bones and pale skin.

His singing voice, songs in polish I never knew the name of, lullabies but also bits of lyrics with no melody in it, as if he were spurting words just for the fun of it.  
I loved him

I saw, deep in my memories, his face young and tired with red all over it, coagulated blood in his nostrils, and his voice repeating “It doesn’t hurt”, but his eyes, injected with blood as well, said otherwise.  
“So you don’t remember” he once asked, half-naked again and wet hair and all pale wearing my underwear,. Sick, and half-dead I denied.  
Because I loved him, even there, in the solitude of my room, darkened by the curtains. But that was a secret of mine to keep. Even when we knew well enough, that the things we both did were trapped inside four walls and the only witness of our affection, hands reaching out, moans dead in throats, was Popper. A dog.

And I loved him more when he held my face with his bony hands and kissed me in the street.  
I knew that I loved him there, in that moment because it felt true and also like a promise.  
It felt like the years we spent in close company, drinking and screaming, and being kids who read books and also fucked because we needed girls but also because we loved each other very much, because our moms were dead and any sight of hope was lost and the desert was big and hollow and it felt right to keep everything inside.

*  
I loved him quietly and passionately through the years, even if that meant my heart aching each time I remembered not having him in my life anymore.

Walking through New York City with my eyes down and wondering for the third time that day “Boris, where are you?” And recalling his face. And his accent, his voice saying “Potter, let’s skip school, yes?”.  
For a second I wondered if it was adolescence what I missed, and not Boris but the feeling of being with him, the freedom, the shoplifting and the careless action of sleeping by the pool in hot summer nights. Then I realized, that all of that was inherently Boris’s.  
That romanticizing summer and Las Vegas was strictly linked to Boris. And without him, there was nothing but a void in my life. We were romantics by the truest meaning of the word. We would drink ourselves to sleep and after reading novels and philosophy we would hold onto each other, sharing a bed and sharing dreams. Two souls finding solace in a quiet but desperate embrace, at dawn. We were both teens after all, and what can we do if not feel? 

During those eight years, I tried to sleep in peace, with many women and like that to keep myself away from the vague but painful memory of Boris. His shadow still haunting my dreams, the ghost of a kiss as vivid in my mind as it was on my lips.

It’s really what they say, that you fall in love with being in love, and what Boris and I had was the closest I have felt to being in love. But then again isn’t nostalgia what I feel? Just wanting to go back to the old days when I felt a little happiness even though that happiness came from the abandon and negligence, from drugs and losing myself. I recall another moment with Boris then, locked in my room because the summer was at its peak and the heat made us want to puke so the air conditioner was loud and it felt like if any secret slipped from our mouths no one outside those four walls would be able to hear it. With our bodies, like a juxtaposition, laying in my single bed (Popper on our feet) I remember saying “One day you will leave”  
and Boris did not reply, maybe he was deep in thought or too stoned to move his mouth, hence I kept going, too focused on the light entering from the window, creating shadows on Boris’s face.

“And maybe I…wouldn’t like that…you know you leaving. And spend the whole summer or winter or whatever by myself? With dad and Xandra..? I’d rather run away. So maybe one day…It’d be nice to see you around, you know. Maybe we could…live like this later. Don’t you think?” 

The last thing I heard was Boris’ s steady breath, he was asleep, no time for answers I guessed. We were so tired back then.

And like that I see, many other times, snippets from my memory, collapsing and reappearing in my mind once I gave myself the opportunity to sit and think about it, about Boris and everything that happened while I wasn’t with him. 

The last time I thought of him deeply, with fondness in my heart was last week, sitting in the old chair Hobbie liked to keep in the hallway, just for him to sit and rest.  
I was trying to calm myself down because I couldn’t sleep that night and I had to leave my room and sit in said chair to recover, I woke up shivering and scared, just like I used to do when I was a kid. And that simple but scary thought brought Boris back.

His hands, reaching out in the darkness of our room, holding me in place, I never felt more vulnerable, the vulnerability I was so scared of didn’t seem so terrible when I actually let it set in, it felt nice and reassuring and Boris’s voice was husky and not too fond but with emotion nonetheless, I remember his hair being soft against my nape. I shake the thought away when I least expected it the sun was rising and I was still sitting in the hallway, my glasses somewhere in my room and a day to come.

*  
Since that night I haven’t thought about Boris.  
Nor his hands nor his voice, not even my days in Vegas, it seemed useless.

What I do recall is working one morning, Hobbie was off that week because he decided to visit Pippa and I was happy to let him go and enjoy some company, taking care of the store wasn’t big fuss and I was more than used to. 

I was cleaning the counter and about to take the trash out when I heard the little bell ring, I knew it was early for a costumer but I quickly moved myself to the door, to face real life again.  
And then I saw him standing there, same dark eyes and hair. Same bony hands and pale face. The same from my memories and dreams and hallucinations and drug-trances. Boris the one I missed the most. The boy who would live in the streets with no extra clothes but a gun, maybe some weed too.

“Potter” 

“Boris” 

“ We finally see each other again! was really excited to see you. How are you?, is your old poofter here? I see you’re working, Potter a businessman.”

My mouth was still open, no air circulating my body, all of myself, still in shock, taking in, Boris talking, Boris in front of me.  
“What are you doing here?” All I said. I was good enough to fantasize and keep everything inside but in action?

“Working. You see I had something to do here in the states and then I thought of you! I said ah Potter, where is he and his melancholic self, should pay him a visit. And eventually found you, how nice, no?”

No, I thought. It’s been a week since I have thought of you…

“Yes I suppose” 

“Oh come on Potter, let’s drink something, this weather makes me want to puke! Nothing a drink can’t cure Am I right?”  
*  
We ended up drinking a lot, like the old days, in a bar around the corner, I don’t even know if I ever visited it before. I don’t know if it was two in the morning or we were at dawn, my head hurt, again, like the old times and it was hard to keep my eyes open, all I did while we drink was to listen to Boris's voice, his numerous adventures, he did not change a bit. I did not change either, being with him made me realize that.  
At some point when we were drunk enough to fall, we left and walked down the street, pressing against each other, the proximity allowed because we were drunk. I was adjusting my glasses, and looking for the keys in my pocket when Boris moved his arm and put it around my shoulders.

“Ah Potter, how I missed this. Us, you know, very nice to see each other once in a while.  
For the good old days.”

I ignored his breath, hot on my face and I found my keys just in time to open the door and let us in. I said nothing as he walked in, taking off his coat, I did the same and right after I fell silent. Did not know what to do anymore. I did pretty well going out with him, pretending he was a friend a kind of missed, and he did well too, keeping the conversation in a casual tone, with fondness maybe but not so much.

Now we were both in my place, going upstairs. I didn’t know what was supposed to happen next.  
As I opened the door of my room and I saw him follow me, I went quiet, as if I were moving around glass and I did not want to break it. And it occurred to me that Boris was going through some deep thought because he hadn’t said a word, and that wasn’t his usual self. So I turned around to see him, in the door, with big eyes, red for the alcohol I have guessed, and in that moment I saw vulnerability in his face. For the first time in years. I saw through him.

“The truth is, Potter…that, listen to me ok? I came here to say this only, only once cause I feel I need to, you know after many years. Remember back in Las Vegas, in your room, when it was so hot that we couldn’t be outside. Well it was unbearable, and we spent the entire day in your room, ah popchyk was there too, as always. And then we fell silent and you said that the day where I left was going to come and you weren’t going to like it. Being alone with your dad and Xandra. I remember that, but then the most important you said was, that you…”  
his voice was breaking a little, I wanted to believe he was too drunk to talk. But I knew deep inside that that wasn’t the reason.

“That it would be nice to see each other again, later and live together the way we used to in Vegas. And I don’t think I said something years back, I couldn’t answer to that. Because for me, at that time it was complicated, it was messy back then. There was my father and yours and Kotku and many things. And then you were the one leaving me behind so I hold onto that thing you said and it never really left my mind” 

I knew he was not lying at that moment because I saw his face and his eyes, and I encounter the same lost boy who once said “Me!You have me!”. His straightforwardness left me empty and speechless. I wasn’t aware of him remembering, I was supposed to be the one remembering everything, for both of us. For eight years I thought so. I was in the wrong.

“And I am sorry Theo” when he said my name, it was like a new door opening. Maybe inside me, maybe far away. 

“I am sorry too. And there hasn’t been a day where I don’t think of you” I confessed, being the only thing my brain could drop.  
I saw him smiling a little, his sparkling eyes fixed on me. I felt naked. Completely vulnerable again.

And if he walked towards me, I did not notice it, not until he was putting me in a hug, that at first felt like a tremulous touch but then I let myself indulge and I held him so tight, like saying “please” and “don’t leave” and “I love you so much”. And he did the same.

Eventually, we break the embrace, not the moment though, because as soon as I saw his face in front of mine I did what I had to do, and that was, kiss him so hard that my lips hurt a little, and maybe his were bleeding, but we didn’t care.

Lips on lips, and hands searching for answers and reaching out to our bodies, and exploration, and missing points. His pale hands on my shoulders as I remembered every part of his body that I had touched. And we fell in my bed, a mess of sheets and pillows and our bodies, burning.  
I loved him so much, that for the first time my mind went blank and all I could think of was Boris, Boris, Boris.

*  
The next morning my head was resting on his chest and his hands were touching my hair and I liked that very much, we did not say a word then, because we knew without saying it out loud, that we were back in each other's lives like we always wanted to. To create more memories and not to scape from them, to live a life made of new moments and stop relying on the past, that once hurt and made us break apart.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you liked it! if so...kudos and comments, especially comments are always appreciated.  
yell at me on  
twt: boreoloveclub  
tumblr: poeticboreo


End file.
